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Your observer has logged thousands of Mustang miles since that red 1968 fastback 390 GT finished last among six sporty coupes in his first comparison test [C/D, March 1968]. Four decades later, the Mustang is Detroit’s most enduring act.

Retro? Oh, yeah. Intentionally so, happily so, all of those old Mustang cues, the deeply tunneled dash dials and the quirky compressed numbers counting off the revs and the miles. The cockpit has the same dark mood; a high beltline capped by a low roof doesn’t leave much room for glass. The cowl is high, and the hood reaches out like a long tray as it serves up the distance.

But it’s the differences that make the Bullitt so much fun. The clutch engages just right. The throttle is blippy but not too quick. When you pull the Tremec lever, you’re moving mighty masses down in the box, so there’s some heft to the pull, reminiscent of Detroiters of yore. Don’t expect the snick of a Honda—Motown muscle was always beefy, serious. The Bullitt is serious about shifting in a way we could only imagine in 1968.

Let’s not forget the pipe music, either. The Bullitt gets a unique exhaust system with a connector between the sides and tuned outlets at the tail, upsized half an inch from the Mustang GT’s to 3.5 inches. Remember the sounds you daydreamed about in study hall. The Bullitt plays them, loud or soft, tracking your foot motions like the needle on an LP.

Steve McQueen drove a 1968 390 GT (the 390 was its engine size, in cubic inches) in the movie, like our old comparison car, except for its color. Today’s showroom Bullitt leaves that old pony for dead, sprinting to 60 mph in 5.0 seconds, 1.3 seconds quicker. The gap widens in the quarter-mile, to 13.6 seconds at 104 mph versus 14.8 seconds at 95 mph. When the street racers of yesteryear spotted a 390 Mustang, they saw an easy kill. Today’s 281-cubic-inch Bullitt, now an SOHC V-8, has two intake valves per cylinder and a snarling disposition. If you could time-travel it back to the ’60s, it would lose by a length or two to a 426 Hemi or a 427 Corvette, but it would have hurt GTOs and 442s so bad they’d cry.

We had no test of cornering grip in 1968, and brake tests were done from 80 mph. But it was a rare muscle car in the ’60s that could exceed 0.60 g. Any and all Mustangs, notorious for understeer, would have ground their fronts to dust trying. Not so with our Bullitt, more than credible at 0.85 g on all-season 50-series BFGs.

Mustangs are affordable rides lined with low-aspiration plastic, ready-to-wear cars for the masses. The Bullitt package adds a muscular intensity, a mechanical presence that dominates the personality. The steering is tight and quick, enough to zig your path if you aren’t smooth. The ride is firm, always in motion, relentlessly up-down up-down. You feel the beat of the V-8—can’t escape it—even when you pull into fifth and loaf. Like the sea, the tires always put up a roar, a reminder of their first-person contact with the road.

In a new century where even brutally fast cars are silky in their manners, the Bullitt Mustang still plays that ’60s McQueen character: restless, looking for trouble, quick to light the tires.